‘That ’ere Jackie was right – you are all right! Well done, Mr Vet, that there I think was a most impressive job.’ Arthur slapped me on the back. I tried to appear grateful – I was genuinely thrilled – but his slap had sent a jet of cold fluid down into my pants, reawakening that cold and slimy sensation that my body was desperately trying to forget.
Happy that the mother was attending her calf and all seemed well, Mary now turned her attention to me.
‘I think it’s time we got you a shower. Have you got a change of clothes?’
Still new to this way of life, I felt slightly uncomfortable taking a shower in a stranger’s house. Besides, I didn’t have anything else to change into so the thought of putting my cold, wet, slimy and pungent clothes back on after a warm shower did not appeal.
‘That’s very kind, Mrs Watts, but unfortunately I don’t have a change of clothes so I’ll probably just head home to clean up.’
‘You mean you won’t even stay for some tea and cake?’ she said, crestfallen. ‘I baked one specially … I’m sure we could find some old flannel trousers of Arthur’s for you to change into.’
I stole a subtle glance at Arthur. He was 6 foot tall, with at least a 36-inch waist. A pair of his trousers would drown me, I thought, but then it would be the height of rudeness to decline tea and cake.
‘You are so extremely kind,’ I stammered, ‘but I think it best to get off home to shower and change, and I wouldn’t want to come into you house like this, so maybe I could just have a cup of tea and cake outside …’
‘Oh don’t you worry about our house, dear, it’s seen far worse than the likes of you in that state, believe you me.’
And so, fifteen minutes later, against every instinct for normal manners, decorum and etiquette, I found myself precariously perched on a kitchen chair, a drenched, sticky, smelly mess, opposite a very relaxed Arthur, while Mary busied herself cutting into a delightful-looking sponge cake and then seeing to the kettle boiling away on the Rayburn behind me. The tea was quenching and the cake delicious so I made the best of my unpleasant state by having seconds of both. My external predicament was not improved, however, despite the satisfying tea break. Having exchanged thanks with them, I carefully lowered myself behind the steering wheel, started the engine and drove out of the farm.
Retracing my journey I passed the church, headed down the hill to cross the bridge over the river, but then pulled into the car park of the Rising Sun to call the practice to inform them of the successful calving and that I wouldn’t be needing any assistance.
It was Hazel who answered. ‘Hi, Jonathan. How are you getting on?’
‘Yeah, all done, I managed to calve her – a lovely healthy bull calf.’ Before I could add anything else, Hazel cut back in.
‘Well done, well done indeed. Now before you head back in, there’s a goat visit for you. It’s in Harracott, so not far from where you are now. A Mrs Parker, at Oak Tree Cottage, she has a billy-goat that’s gone lame, so if you could pop in there on your way back, that would be great.’
What I should have said was: ‘I’m covered in 12 litres of unbelievable disgustingness, a lame goat isn’t an emergency, so I’ll go tomorrow because I’m not in any sort of state to see someone on a professional basis.’
Instead, doubtless because of my new graduate eagerness to please, the words I heard coming out of my mouth were: ‘Sure! Do you have an address? I’m afraid I have no idea where that is in relation to where I am, but I can certainly head there now.’
‘Great,’ she replied. ‘Harracott is about ten minutes away from Umberleigh …’
I jotted down the grid reference.
‘Tell her I’m on my way.’
‘Will do. Thanks, Jonathan.’
You idiot, I thought to myself. What on earth were you thinking? You can’t go to see a client like this! I adjusted the rear-view mirror so I could survey the damage. I had globules of afterbirth stuck in my hair; my face had a tainted sheen to it from the dried foetal fluid; and I was still soaking wet. I thought through my options. They were limited: to go as I was, or to ring Hazel back and cancel. Neither seemed particularly appealing.
Then, in a flash of inspiration, I remembered the wetsuit I’d bought that morning, and which was still lying in its packaging in the back of the car. I remembered how snugly it had fitted when I’d tried it on, and imagined how warm it would keep me. I could put that on, with clean waterproof trousers and top over it so it would be invisible, and what’s more, I’d be dry, which would feel a hundred times better. It seemed like a perfect plan.
If anyone passing the Rising Sun on that late Thursday afternoon in September had glanced into the car park, they may have seen a green Ford Focus estate in the far corner, parked at an odd angle in an attempt to hide the dishevelled semi-naked figure behind it. After extracting myself from my sodden, odorous clothes, I made a moderate success of patting myself dry and cleaning my face with the roll of blue paper towel I always carried in the boot.
The first flaw in my plan came when I attempted to squeeze into the wetsuit. Forcing my bare left leg through the appropriate aperture, the unforgiving neoprene exfoliated most of my leg hairs, causing me to howl in pain. The dried amniotic fluid had stuck the hairs together in clumps, so any friction caused them to be ripped from their follicles. Knowing now what torture lay ahead for my right leg, I gritted my teeth and thrust it down as quickly and bravely as I could. The pain was so acute and intense I nearly collapsed.
With my legs in, I pulled the suit up to my waist, before realizing I now had to go through the whole ordeal again with both my arms. It was starting to dawn on me that maybe this wasn’t the most robust and foolproof plan in the world. Nevertheless I continued with a stubborn defiance drawn from the conviction that this was now my only option: Hazel would by now have called Mrs Parker, and she would be expecting me.
Wetsuit now on, I blanched at zipping it up, so instead hauled a clean pair of waterproofs over the top and slipped my bare feet into my saturated wellies. I looked at my reflection in the passenger window. The collar of my waterproof top did a good job of hiding the wetsuit at the neck, but the long sheaths of its rubberized arms could not be disguised, poking out weirdly from the short sleeves of the waterproof. It would have to do. Was it such a ludicrous idea, after all, that a professional vet would attire themselves in a wetsuit? And in any case, British politeness would surely save the day.
Ten minutes later, I was speeding towards Harracott to attend to Mrs Parker’s lame billy-goat. And it was now that I discovered the insulating benefits of the 5/3mm wetsuit that Martin had recommended. Within minutes I was sweating profusely and, despite turning the air-conditioning on full blast, I felt there was a distinct possibility that I could evaporate before making it to my destination. The chinks in this plan were rapidly turning into gapping chasms; perhaps I needed to re-evaluate my method of decision-making as a matter of priority.
Oak Tree Cottage was a quaint, whitewashed, nineteenth-century cottage, with black timber-framed windows and a slated tiled roof, and I easily found it. Parking outside, I wiped the sweat from my brow as I reviewed my appearance in the rear-view mirror. My face was flushed, my hair was a mess, and the combined aroma of sweat and foetal waters was overwhelmingly unpleasant. Poor Mrs Parker, I thought. I threw together a box of basic equipment that I might require: hoof knives, thermometer, gloves, stethoscope, needles, syringes and a choice selection of drugs. Here goes, I thought, as I shut the boot, headed for the front door and rang the doorbell.
Moments later the door was opened by a middle-aged lady in socks, jeans and a jumper, with a toddler crooked in her left arm.